


Elder Scrolls: Dragon of the North

by LittleKing523



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Alternate Origin Story, Dragonborn (Elder Scrolls), Gen, Inspired by Skyrim, Original Character(s), Romance, Skyrim Civil War, Skyrim Main Quest, Violence, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-29
Updated: 2018-08-29
Packaged: 2019-07-02 01:50:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15786495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleKing523/pseuds/LittleKing523
Summary: Is fate all that you have decided to do, or all that is yet to be? When you make those conscious decisions, have you truly made them, or is it some otherworldly being pulling the strings of your mind? Is it destiny that wills you to heroism and praise? Or was it some strange matter of circumstance?A simple visit to an age-old friend is morphed by the powers of prophecy, forcing one Varik Bear-Blood to abandon his life as a mercenary and step into the shoes of a leader he never envisioned in his wildest dreams. In his first steps out of his old shell he will encounter everything: Despair, Love, War, Politics... and unfortunately it won't wait long to sink its teeth into his mind and morph him into the man he must become.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Be mindful that this story is not yet completed, and is prone to edits and changes! Although it may follow the structure of the story set in Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim, I plan full well to elaborate on the personality involved within it. Feedback is seriously appreciated! I will post new chapters as they are completed. Hope you enjoy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legend  
> (noun) ~ a non-historical or unverifiable story handed down by tradition from earlier times and popularly accepted as historical

     "You recall the order, do you not?" Derush asked flatly, his walking pace calm and steady as he approached this young man before him.

     "Y-yes, of course. I was one of the scholars meant to take charge of pooling the Akavari knowledge for Alduin's Wall." Edmun stammered at the sudden approach of the Blade.

     Derush shook his head, confused with the sudden fearful temperance Edmun had shown. "Do you still truly fear me as though I was a conqueror come to cut you down?" he questioned, his hand only idly resting on the hilt of his signature sword.

    It was true the sword Derush held was once used to kill scores of Nords in the invasion of Tamriel, but it was now bestowed upon him as a badge of the Dragonguard, sworn to the service of the emperor, Reman II. The intricacies of its creation were lost to time, but it was a blade unlike any other. Year after year it had always managed to retain its sharpness, and the hilt was ornate in the fine cloth that circled around it.

     "Well I... no, no of course not!" Edmun exclaimed, his hands nervously collecting the drag in his loose robes. "I am merely cautious, Swordmaster, Derush."

     "You have no need to be. The Akaviri are no longer your conquerors. The Blades serve the Emperor, and our loyalty is unending. It has been so for a century or more." Derush stated sternly. "The Emperor will be here soon, I rode ahead to ascertain the grandness of the wall. You realize the Emperor has been anticipating its completion for years now, yes?" 

     Edmun felt his eyes rolls as Derush said before him the history of his order. "Of course, of course, Derush. Come, I can show you the wall. It's a marvel few will ever see I'm afraid but a ..." he had said dryly, his tone only evening at the mention of the wall, "... bastion against the forgetfulness of ages."

     Derush followed close behind Edmun as he lead him up the stone steps of Sky Haven Temple. His onyx lemellar plates gleamed golden in the setting sun, a dignification of his rank and might. Derush had seen more than forty years of war and combat, and everything before the blades had become a blur. His brown hairs were now patterned with defiant grey tips and strands to strengthen the loss of youth. Once shining hazel eyes had dulled to a brown that told his many tales of victories and defeats.

     When Edmun ascended the final steps to the temples hall, he beheld Alduin's Wall with his usual look of hushed admiration. "Blade, I present to you, Alduin's Wall. Its... more impressive the more of it you see."

     For a fleeting moment Derush's youth had returned to him with the boyish grin that split his face in two, yellow teeth shown through a greying beard. "Gods, scholar..." he gasped in amazement, "This is unlike any that I have seen, man or mer. Reman will be most pleased, I promise!" 

     "Mnm... yes, well, the craftsmen were well funded thanks to the Grandmaster's visit a few years ago..." Edmun hummed, gesturing to the massive stone wall that spread the span of thirty men side by side.

     "Can you read it all?" Derush asked, turning his aged eyes to Edmun. 

     The man feigned a smile as he glanced to the Blade. He'd recited the wall's tellings a thousand times over in his writings and studies, and here he was now, doing it once more. "Well, it all starts with the 'Dragon War', here where the Nordic legends and warriors of old can be seen driving back Alduin's reign of terror. A long and cost--"

     "No, Scholar," Derush interjected, his armored footfalls gliding against the stone floor as he shuffled forwards, "I want you to recite the prophecy while I behold this monument of an era." His eyes gleamed with the reflection of the wall before him. 

     Sighing, Edmun felt pressed to give in to the Master Blade's desires. The prophecy was rarely recited within the halls of Sky Haven Temple, despite the purpose of its construct being dedicated to its very existence. It had always been a matter of some ceremony, but Edmun was a man of books and inked feather tips, not tradition. With no other scholars to harp on him, he entertained Derush. "When misrule takes its place at the eight corners of the world, When the Brass Tower walks and Time is reshaped, When the thrice-blessed fail and the Red Tower trembles," Edmun took a breath, "When the Dragonborn Ruler loses his throne, and the White Tower falls, When the Snow Tower lies sundered, kingless, bleeding, The World-Eater wakes, and the Wheel turns upon the Last Dragonborn."

     Derush shivered, at the prophecy's end. The Last Dragonborn, he thought to himself. "May he resign an emperor, as all of the dragon's blood should." He turned to Edmun. "Thank you. Sincerely."

     A smile parted Edmun's features and he offered a slow nod. "Yes, of course. It likely will be one of the many times I have to tell it in my future days. I'm sure everyone in Skyrim will want ear of it after the Emperor has come through and performed The Blood Seal." 

    A sudden look of sadness had swept over Derush as he bowed his head. "Ah, yes. It will be soon too, I'm afraid. Too soon. This wall deserves to be seen by all lest they forget Alduin's return. A scribe should illustrate it and dispatch it to all the provinces across Tamriel..."

     Edmun laughed, visibly amused with the Blades request. "If only it could be so... but that would render something as rare as this pointless, would it not?" he asked.

     "Derush!" A voice called out. "Derush!" It called again, the voice echoing from down the steps of the temple. "The Emperor is here!" 

      The Blade turned to behold the scholar one final time, holding out his hand. "Until The Blood Seal, Scholar Edmun. You and all others have undertaken the task to preserve the knowledge of Alduin's return. The ages to come after will have you to thank for it."

       Edmun gave that short smile of his once again, shaking hands with the warrior. "Oh, I was only a mere scholar. Until The Blood Seal, Blade. Long live the Emperor. Long live the Empire." 

     Derush nodded his head. "Long live the Emperor," he repeated, his tone much stronger and telling of his pride. In a moments passing he had chased after the voice that had beckoned him, wondering what duty to his Emperor might now await him. 

     When Edmun was alone once more, he felt a rush of relief. In all his life he was never a man for the ever changing tides of intrigue and war within Skyrim. He may have not been aged a week beyond twenty-five years, but his wisdom was seldom pulled from that same pool. No, ever since he was a boy, his father seen off to war, he surrounded himself with tomes and scrolls of old. The common tales had bored him so dreadfully, to his mother's dismay. 

     Edmun saw Alduin's wall not as the monument of the era, but instead as an artist might his painting, or king his kingdom. It was an unspoken appreciation and care. A smile parted his youthful face when he thought once again of himself as a father to a wall. He wasn't solely responsible for its conceiving, hardly at all responsible in fact. Dozens upon dozens had been called from all across Tamriel to see the wall through. Edmun had only ever been responsible for gathering the Akavri texts on the Daedric princes; meant to illustrate the day that the gates of Oblivion would finally draw open. 

     Soon he was no longer alone, as scholars and blades began to fill the hall in number. Each warrior was gripped by the finest armor Reman II's Empire could give them, for those present were sworn members of the Dragonguard. Derush was among them, his armor unique in its onyx-gold glow. Edmun would breathe one final prepatory breath as he now joined the line of scholars that formed, their bodies draped in ceremonial cloths and fabrics.

     "Now enters, The Emperor, Reman II!"


	2. Odyssey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Odyssey  
> (noun) ~ a long journey full of adventures

     Mountains, ice, and snow spanned as far as the eye could see. Frostfall dawns its 20th day, bringing with it a blizzard unlike any to be encountered anywhere else in all of Tamriel. The Jerall mountains were known for their harsh conditions, and as a Nord, Varik could boast resistance to the cold. Alas, boasting only went so far when your skin began to pale as white as the snow you marched through.

     "Do the gods have any mercy?" Varik asked himself, his voice rough and low. 

     So long in the cold had made him irate. When would he see the end of this terrible mountain range? If it wasn't soon, he would be reduced to nothing more than a frozen corpse the scavengers picked clean as to avoid the same fate.

     Shivering, the lone Nord trudged onward. He was exhausted, his breath escaping him much like it would an out of shape lad training for the Legion. Varik frowned upon it, for he knew he could go further. If only his body would let him. His bones were aching, and his legs burned in constant annoyance. They felt as though they would simply drop out from beneath him, letting him fend for himself while they regained their strength. 

     "I'm almost there, Ogren," he said to himself again, this time in a garbled mess. 

     His tongue felt swollen, and excess saliva pooled within his mouth. Varik spat the thick substance onto the earth he walked on, the snow below him drinking it up. It was only by the grace of luck that he saw the silhouette of a man appear in the distance. There was nothing left to eat, and nothing left to drink. If the gods were willing, maybe this man could aid him in his strife.

     "Hello!" He called out over the steady winds, leaning his hands onto his knees.

     "Greetings lad!" A voice answered back.

     "Hail to you, brother." Another man said, "Hold up!" He finished, raising a fist in the air. 

     Varik was shocked at hearing a second voice beyond his own. Had he truly failed to see the growing caravan, at least twenty strong, before him? The large party had all come to a halt, hooded figures straying from the file and gazing curiously ahead. What had stopped them?

     "Where are all of you going out in this storm?" Varik asked, his back straightening. He'd wanted to appear less exhausted than he truly was; lest these travelers be a potential threat.

     A chuckle came from a man gripping a spear and shield, "Why, we're heading anywhere but here, lad. Roads ahead of you are only harsher."

     "The storm?" Varik had begun to ask, cut off abruptly by the man with a fist held high.

     "Aye, but more than that. The skies will rain blood and death soon. Us and our betters aren't sticking around for the show,  and neither should you." The caravan master had said with a more distinguishable voice. Those of the caravan that had continued to speak among themselves did so with a brogue unique only to them.

     As he gazed upon the fellows before him, Varik could feign good health for only so long. His vision blurred and he soon keeled over again, panting heavily. "Do you have any food? Or water?" He called out to them, his head spinning with dehydration.

     The Caravan Master bit his lip, turning to look at his party. His gaze had been long in thought, and he was only prompted to speak again at the snort of his mount. "Apologies lad, but we need to look out for ourselves. Besides, we've still got a whole mountain range to ride through." 

     "Oh, Graldur! Look at 'im would you? Damn near dying!" shouted a shorter man, "Come 'round here, lad! I've got a hot meal for you if you're needing it!" Without another word the fellow began to shuffle away in the snow, vanishing behind the apparent vastness of the caravan.

     Varik stared his steely eyes ahead, at Graldur, the tall and burly caravan master. He was draped in thick wool and furs, the warmth they provided a shield against the biting cold. His legs were cast over a worn leather saddle, strapped tight to the draft horse he mounted. It was strong and hardy, like most of its breed in Skyrim. The gray coat of dreading hairs it grew were left long to mimic the beard of its rider. 

     Graldur collected a pool of saliva in his mouth, hacking loudly to force up phlegm in his throat. When that shorter member of his party was gone from sight he spat it out in anger, muttering about how his command had been stripped so blatantly. "We're gonna hold up here lads! Dry your furs... might be staying the night..." 

     With his word restored the other members of the caravan had waved each other off and broke their formation. Many of the guards that rode with Graldur disbanded to their families that sat huddled within insulated wagons. 

     Varik would finally find his drive again, pushing himself through the snow that sat as high as his knees. He could feel its cold bite at his feet, so sure that a pounds worth of the powdered ice had collected in his boots. No amount of furs to warm the insides would survive against these conditions. He wandered aimlessly along the long line of carts and wagons, struggling to remember where exactly the barer of his meal had run off to.

     "Took you long enough, lad!" He called out happily, knowing full well he startled Varik with his sudden excitement. This man was much harder to make out, his stumped figure be like a walking pile of dirtied clothes. All that shown was yellow teeth through a devilish grin.

     "Where are you all riding from? And why in this storm?" Varik asked, his body trembling involuntarily. These conditions were killing him, so the reason anyone else would brave them was something to ponder, if nothing else.

     "Oh, don't sound so surprised, lad. Its you too who is out in these conditions isn't it? Could easily ask you the same thing, now couldn't I," The short man replied, his grin widening in to a smile. "Now go on. In you go." He urged, gesturing with a hand for the flap of his wagon.

      Feeling like he was just outsmarted by the likes of a mule, Varik nodded his head and climbed inside of the wagon. Within it had been as well-prepared as he imagined. The floor of the cart was strewn with layers upon layers of hide and animal pelts. Its center had been cut and replaced with a stone construct to house a small fire, and that it did, cooking above it a kettle of beef stew.

     Not one to comment idly on the impressiveness of wheeled wooden carts, Varik found a place to sit close enough to the fire that it might warm his frozen figure. He only noticed the boy sat across from him when he shifted in uneasiness. A stranger had just entered, and that likely meant trouble through the boys innocent brown eyes. 

     "I see you've helped yourself to a seat," mumbled that smiling man as he too climbed into the warmth of his wagon. It was clear he took much pride in its resilience; the device no doubt braving many journeys as taxing as this.

     Varik moved this tongue around in his mouth, glad that it had begun to lose its wet swell. It made it easier for him to talk, even if it would be words few and far between. "Sorry." he said, his voice flat and weak.

     Its sudden deepness made the boy across from him shiver, and he glared helplessly at the small man hunched at the at the entry flap of the wagon. Spotting the small brown eyes, the man moved to sit beside him, shrouding the red-brown haired boy in his thick cloak of fur.

     When he was comfortable enough beside the boy, the man had finally tugged off his hood and shown his face. He was well beyond his prime years, his skin rough and scratchy like a sanding board. His chin had grown a ginger beard, but it was patchy and not well-grown like Graldur's had been.

     Varik brushed through his own beard, trimmed and full, melted ice glossing the tips of his bear-skin gloved fingers with cold water. His long brown hair was much the same, damp with the frost that melted away with time. 

     "Don't fret lad, it's no trouble. We weren't expecting other travelers on our path," The man started, "It's few that are as bold as we that dare travel in the heart of winter!" He rumbled with laughter, hugging the boys shoulders closer to him. "You got a name?"

     Varik blinked his eyes at the man, struggling to feign interest in that idle chatter he sought never to conjure. However, a steaming kettle of stew did wonders for his sudden answer, albeit short.

"Varik," he said with a cold tone. "Bear-Blood." There had been a long pause before the mention of his clan. It was no longer beheld as vastly as it had in years prior; now only a mere shadow of its former self.

     "Well, it's a pleasure to meet you, Varik Bear-Blood. M'names Sindri," The other man said, finally giving himself name. His blue eyes held a cheerful gleam when they lowered to the boy beside him, "And this lad here is Dirk."

     And a Dirk he was, small yet sharp of mind. He knew better than to speak out just yet, for how could he predict the purpose of Varik's intrusion. It was beyond his eight year foresight that Sindri was responsible for his presence. 

     Varik had shifted his seating as his cloak tugged tight at his shoulders. He had sat himself upon its drag in his rush to warm beside the fire. When he stood it had hung proudly as far down as his calves, its color a strong black-brown mixture. The pelt used for it had been taken from the first bear Varik had ever hunted, a nasty thing in the mountainous regions of Eastmarch. 

     "... so, where is it you're headed off on your own, Varik?" Sindri asked suddenly, breaking the sudden silence. His lips would part again in that toothy grin he always seemed to wear. 

     Unable to ignore him, Varik gave his even-toned reply, "I am traveling to Helgen. I have a someone I must see."

     Sindri nodded slowly in acknowledgement, venturing a hand towards his kettle. It pinched upon the handle of a wooden ladle and began to stir clockwise the contents within the kitchenware. 

     "Ah... Helgen," he said, his tone now shifting to a new lowness, "They're taking him there, you know?" Who he spoke of was unclear, but his words were as sure as the careful look in his eyes.

     While the question lingered, Varik bit at his bottom lip, dead skin having flaked in its center. "Who?" he asked, knowing Sindri spoke vaguely on purpose.

     "Ulfric Stormcloak. Lord -- er, Jarl to Windhelm. Leader of the rebel armies." Sindri replied, regaining his lighthearted attitude.

     Ulfric Stormcloak had started the civil war in Skyrim after the Markarth Incident in the Reach. The whole conflict was still a matter of controversy within Skyrim, and more specifically the Empire. In its Great War with the Thalmor High Elves, they had recalled their legionaries and left the city exposed to the barbaric savages known then as the Reachmen, and now as the Forsworn. Markarth had been besieged by the merciless men of the hills, the Jarl Igmund's seat of power taken out from under him. 

     Most say that the Stormcloak rebellion started here; after Ulfric had taken with him a militia of Nords to free the city of its conquerors. But, it becomes a bloodied blur when swords had begun swinging. Many citizens lost their lives to the enraged Jarl after the battle subsided, the man furious with the shortcomings of his people.

     "Ulfric was captured?" Varik asked, his brow dipping in intrigue. With war now on the table, he was within his realm of conversation. 

     "Aye... Imperials caught him in a trap at Darkwater. Riding for Helgen as we speak to see him and his force executed. Imperials don't want him slipping through their fingers. So, best off with his head sooner than later." Sindri said so thoroughly. It was an eloquence unlike him. "We were in the city of Falkreath when the executioner left for Helgen on Jarl Siddgeir's request." He finished.

     As the stirring stew neared its bowl ready state, the boy Dirk had peeled himself away from Sindri in search of the proper tableware. He didn't plan to eat his share with his hands, even if Varik looked as though he would pounce, no charge, as fashionless as a bear would, with any more time passed.

     Sindri kept on speaking, very clearly for himself given the lack of interest, or active chatter, Varik had provided. "Graldur says it stinks of something awful, and so we're all heading back home. The man might not be the brightest of candles, but we never seen his sense be wrong before."

     Varik nodded his head, unaware of the exhausted look that now sat on his face. "Whatever it smells of, I'll have to put up with it. I still need to get to Helgen." His stomach ached in hunger. Could these people move any slower?

     Sindri shrugged carelessly. If Varik was to undertake his journey in this condition, it was his funeral. But, he respected the man's reasons for doing so, even if they were self destructive in their nature. 

     "I understand, lad. Just be careful in Falkreath Hold. Place is run through with bandits." 

     Dirk had just crawled back with the bowls when Sindri spoke of the bandits in Falkreath. He frowned, and Sindri visibly regretted mentioning them. With those gentle eyes, he managed to get the boy to return to his side. 

     Varik shot Sindri a stern look. "Bandits shouldn't be trouble. The cowards hardly manage to fight farmers defending their steads, let alone hardened Nords." he joked dryly.

     "Who do you have to go see?" Dirk asked, finally unveiling the squeak of a voice only boys of his age possessed. 

    Sindri had glanced up at Varik with the sudden prod, uncertain as to the type of response it would warrant from such an enigmatic wanderer.

     "A man. His name is Ogren." Varik entertained, answering the question with his usual flatness. But, it lacked that sense of sureness that it usually did. Varik swallowed down a thick lump sat large in his throat.

     Oblivious to Varik's body language, the boy continued, "Do you love them?"

     Surprised by the bluntness of the question, Varik stared forwards at the boy. That lump conjured from sadness and the will to weep formed again in his throat but he swallowed it down, as any man would. 

     "He if very much a father to me." he answered back solemnly. 

     "What's wrong with him? You sound sad when you talk about him... so something must be wrong," Dirk asked. 

     Varik chewed at that skin hung off the side of his lip again, wondering how he would reply to the constant questioning. "He is old. Very sick." he decided to go with.

     Breaking his long silence, Sindri now jumped into the conversation, "Okay, lads! Enough about all that grim and gloom, it's time to eat. While it's still hot at the very least." The bearded man maintained that usual toothy grin of his and passed around three steaming bowls of beef stew. 

     Content to assume a silence and shovel copious amounts of warmed vegetables and cooked beef into his mouth, Varik took the bowl offered to him. "Thank you. I'm in your debt for this," He said in that low tone.

With nothing else, the three of them turned to their bowls and dug in.

***

     They ate and ate, not speaking until there bellies were full and their hungers were satiated. Even then, they opted to remain silent, huddled next to their fire. But, where tongues went still, thoughts raced.

     Varik had never outwardly explained or acknowledged how much Ogren meant to him, yet here this random boy was pulling it right out of him. Why was Dirk so deft at disarming his defenses? 

     "Will you stay the night, lad?" Sindri asked suddenly.

     Once addressed, Varik returned from his thoughts and answered, "No. I have to get to Helgen." His face shown the drive he had to see the end of this journey through. 

     "Ah... Well, ehm... I understand what ya' mean, lad, I do," Sindri spoke, fingering at his beard. "Here -- I'll lend you some supplies for the road. You don't have to owe it back or nothing like that, just keep it."

     Setting his bowl beside the fireplace, Sindri rose and crawled to the corner of the cart. While he put together a pack of supplies, Dirk and Varik didn't speak. Their conversation had been exhausted. 

     "You need some dry food, I wager. I'll even throw in that water-skin too. Oh -- and this old thing." 

     Sindri collected more and more items, fastening them wherever he could on the fur rucksack. What he didn't put on it, he stuffed within it. Eventually he was satisfied, holding it out to Varik. The Nord wouldn't know all that was inside, but it was a safe bet it was all to aid him. 

     "Thank you, Sindri." Varik said, his voice actually softening. He'd take the bag into his large gloved hands and set it down beside him. "I appreciate it."

     Warmed by the thanks, Sindri gave a firm nod of his head. When he lowered himself back down beside Dirk, the boy whispered, "I'm tired. When will he leave?"

     Varik heard the boy's hushed tone. Not wanting to invade further he rose to his feet deciding it best to leave the wagon. Sindri looked at him, quickly putting Dirk down and covered him with a blanket. Afterwards, he was swift to follow behind the Nord that left his cart.

     Once again exposed to the elements, Sindri donned his floppy fur hood to protect his head from the cold. Varik instead had pulled his furs into a mask before his face, relying on his helmet to warm the top of his head. It was large, hammered at the age old forge in Windhelm, the City of Kings. Large horns spiraled from its sides and mimicked a ram; the very creature no doubt the source of the withering brown horns.

     "You'll want to keep an eye on the stars! Don't want to lose yourself in the mountains at night." 

     "I'll be careful." Varik answered back, trying to talk over the winds that blew. "You should worry about yourselves... and that boy. Not me."

     "Oh us?" Sindri asked, smiling wide under the largeness of his hood. "We'll make our way nice and merry, dont fret." He turned to the path ahead of Varik. "You best be going, lad! Fate waits for no man!" Sindri sent the man off with a pat on his shoulder, turning back to his wagon soon after.

     Graldur was standing nearby, sharing mead with other members of the party. They caught sight of Varik on his departure. "Aye! Fiddle with your stones so they don't freeze off! Hah!" Graldur chuckled, clinging bottles with the man beside him.

     Varik huffed in amusement at that much, waving at the men as he set off into mountains once again. It was only due to Sindri that he was in any condition to do so.

     Said man lingered, watching as the Nord vanished into the darkness. He no longer appeared happy. No, he looked uneasy.

      "Something on yer mind, Sindri?" Gradlur called out in a drunken slur. Even in this state he was able to detect when a member of his caravan was out of sorts.

       "Nay... just forgot to wish him good luck, I did." Sindri replied, turning his eyes to his friend. They no longer held that gleam they once had moments ago.

     "You think he'll need it, do you?" Asked Graldur, lifting his bottle to his lips and taking a swig. It was in another slurred mumble that he continued, "You see the armor on him, Sindri? A right proper warhorse he is. He'll be fine."

     His words hovered in the air, earning no immediate response from the man they were addressed to. It made Graldur uncomfortable, the man stammering as though there was more to say.

     "Aye, I do." Sindri soon said, turning away and stepping carefully back to his wagon. He threw a leg up onto it, stealing another word, "He'll do good things, I get the sense. Saw it in those eyes of his." And in saying that, Sindri drew open the flap of fur sealing his wagon, and stepped inside.

Now alone, Graldur huffed. He hadn't spoken to the stranger at all, and could only stare upon the filling footsteps he had left behind in his wake. "Suppose e' will." He mumbled. "Talos protect him... He'll need it."


	3. Kiss of Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Relief  
> (noun) ~ an emotion to show happiness that something has turned out a certain way  
> 

     Having marched headlong through the night, Varik managed to make up for lost time spent with the caravan. When he neared the end of the mountain valley, morning dawned. But, an overcast kept the sun from truly shining. Instead the world had been put through an ominous blue lens, a strange icy light befalling the landscape.

     Varik smiled with its existence. The scene, coupled with the sight of rising plumes of smoke in the distance filled him with a sense of relief. Helgen wasn't much further now. A contented sigh had escaped the Nord as he marched on, feeling very much as though he were the only man on Nirn. Birds could sing, wolves could howl, but he remained the only man. At least, that is so until he nears the wooden gates of Helgen.

     "Halt!..." A sudden voice called out at him dryly. 

     It was one of two guards, sentries to keep watch for travelers. Oddly, they weren't Jarl Siddgeir's soldiers as they had always been. Now they were men outfitted with the combination of segmentata and steel plate unique to the legionaries of the Third Empire.

     Varik obeyed the command and came to a stop. He idly thumbed at the strap to the bag over his shoulder, waiting for the legionaries to advance the conversation. It was likely they had some new screening procedure in place to cut down on the number of people coming through town. Word was spreading of Ulfric's capture.

     "What's the reason of your visit?" The second guard called down at Varik, curling his fingers around the wood railing before him.

     "Visiting a friend. He's fallen ill in his age," He answered back deliberately. 

     Nodding to each other the soldiers had the gates opened. "Very well! Cause no trouble... welcome to Helgen." 

     Varik bowed his head and entered at their behest, the gates soon drawing closed behind his entry. Before him sat the usual homes of thatch and wood not like most villages spread across Skyrim. There wasn't any new ones since his last visit. Helgen Keep, the original fortress maintained here, still occupied most of the area. It was an impressive military installation, its walls encircling the townsfolk with a line of solid defense. Three towers stood tall, still meeting the needs of the soldiers garrisoned here. One watched over the mountains, the second was built above the keep, and the third sat short in the center of town. 

     Starting off down the road, Varik made his way towards Ogren's hut. It was the smallest in the village, having been hastily constructed to house him when he'd first moved into town, but, it was also a project Varik and Ogren undertook; building the house together. Since his last visit, Ogren's home had fallen into disrepair. The once fine wooden door was now dilapidated and hung loose from its hinges. The entryway, warm and inviting in its history, had grown bleak and depressing. It invoked within Varik a feeling of dread. Did rotted wooden doors and uncleaned stone stairs serve as a prelude to the worsening condition of his age-old friend?

     Varik exhaled, whispering to himself, "Come on." It was hard to will himself inside, but he managed to grip the handle of the door and push it open.

     When he first entered, his boots stepped heavily on the withering floor. His weight resulted in an unnerving creak. Varik winced, knowing that the noise might wake the resting old man in bed only a few feet away. 

     Ogren stirred, eventually waking up due to that very sound. "Hrm? Wha -" He coughed violently. "Who's there? Lodran?" 

      It was out of a sudden fear that he had sat up in his bed, the little light that there was in the house illuminating his frail features. Ogren looked truly terrible. His once full face had now drooped, and his cheeks were sunken in deep. Varik frowned, feeling his heart sink down into his stomach. 

     "No," He answered back in a soft tone, his hands pulling his furs off of his head. "It's me, Varik. I came as soon as I got your letter." Sorrow collected in his throat again, and the urge to swallow was possessive in its nature. "How... do you feel?"

     Ogren strained, coughing up a storm once again. "I'm tired boy... tired..." He answered at the decline of his fit. His once proud voice, capable of rallying the hearts of men, was now a mere croak.

     "I know, Ogren." Varik answered back, his eyes now starting to burn. There was nothing he could do to free Ogren of his woes.

"Mnmm..." The old man hummed in reply. For a long time he didn't say anything else. 

     He had just sunk back into the warmth of his bed, enjoying the presence of a man he would've liked to call his son. But, he knew he couldn't. "Varik?" Ogren called out.

     "Yes?" Varik replied, anticipating his word.

     With such a quick reply, Ogren felt comforted. He knew someone here truly cared for him. "Do you still have the journal I sent with -- ahem. With the letter?" He asked hastily, his throat aching with the effort wasted in speaking.

     The courier did deliver a small notebook, containing within it many torn pages a size too big for a book of its liking. Notes maybe.

     "Yes. I have it." Varik answered sternly.

     A slow nod was given by Ogren, "You didn't read any of it yet, did you?" 

     "Uh... no... I haven't read any of it yet. I thought I --" Varik tried to reply, his voice cut off by Ogren's sudden interjection.

     "Good, boy, good..." He swallowed phlegm in his throat. "You must-- ahem... only read it when you feel it best." 

      "How am I supposed to know when that is, Ogren?" Varik asked, lowering his brow. 

"You will know, Varik. When you --" Ogren failed to explain any further as he coughed into a fit again. He was wasting too much energy conversing.

     It was sad to see him struggle to accomplish even a mere conversation. A few years ago he was still teaching Varik new tricks with his sword. But now... "Rest, Ogren. You need rest." Varik said, taking the man's feeble hands into his own. 

      Again the two men drifted into silence. It was something they were comfortable with. Ogren was simply enjoying the presence of someone who cared for him, while Varik was standing beside his dying friend.

     "Has Lodran seen you recently?" he asked warily. 

     Ogren shook his head, squirming beneath his fur covers. He was warm. 

     "Then I'll have to tear him a new one. There's no reason he shouldn't have been by already." Varik said, feeling a bit angry.

     It was good to have something to go do, at least. Honestly, he couldn't bare looking at Ogren like this forever. So, he soon sough out Lodran, his caretaker.

***

     When Varik finally stepped back into the world, he was hit with sudden surprise. Swelling at the main gates, villagers stared in awe at a man entering upon a great white stallion. General Tullius, and Imperial native to Cyrodiil, the home of the Empire, was leading his cohort of Imperial Legionaries into Helgen's walls. He was flanked by a group of Thalmor High Elves, likely diplomatic envoys as per the White-Gold Concordat. It had given them freedom to oversee the political atmosphere of Skyrim, due to the rebellious Nords who still worshiped Talos. Escorted in the rear by the Empire's finest, a line of prisoner carts entered the town. Within them sat rows of captured Stormcloak soldiers.

     "General Tullius, sir! The headsman is waiting!" One of the soldiers upon the gate called out, his voice firm unlike before.

     Pulling off to the side, the general had answered back, "Good. Let's get this over with." His flat tone was similar to Varik's.

     "Hey, Bear-Blood!" Someone suddenly called out. 

     Hearing his clan name, Varik perked up, looking for the source. It was Lodran, standing on a balcony of a two story home. From there, he was gazing upon the village's main courtyard, located in the shadow of the center tower.

     "Come up here!" He called out, waving the Nord closer to him.

     Varik pushed his way through the growing crowd of people, hurrying inside the home and upstairs to its balcony. When he stood beside Lodran he realized how much he changed since his last visit. 

     He had finally started to grow out of his awkward young adult form, and more into manhood.  Lodran now kept his hair cut very short too, and styled it casually with a bit of brush work. His clothes were more put together to suit a graduated student of the University of Gwylim, instead of a common villager. 

     "Ulfric Stormcloak just arrived." He said, scarcely believing the words that came out of his mouth. Lodran watched in anticipation as the carts were led into the village's center. "They're going to end the war.

     Wide-eyed, Varik turned his gaze back down to the courtyard. It was perfectly encircled. On one side, a crowd of townsfolk gathered. On the other side a line of Imperial legionaries had formed on the path that connected the fort's yard to the villages courtyard. 

    Once the prisoner carts reached their destination, they were stopped and unloaded. The Imperials forced the prisoners into strict lines organized based on the individuals place of birth. Men and women from all across Skyrim stood in silence knowing full well they were being herded before the chopping block.

     Helgen Keep was renowned for the grueling prison it maintained, and the executions it carried out. Few prisoners were said to have ever left the walls alive, and it was no surprise Ulfric Stormcloak had been sent here of all places.

     Initially, the Imperials paid no mind to the growing crowd, but as they became more rowdy in these wee hours of the morning, they deployed a second line before them. It was in hopes to stop any and all from storming the courtyard.

     "What's going on?! Who is that?" People called out, desperately trying to peak over the heads of their fellow townsfolk Some cheered for death, and others begged for mercy. Helgen was split in two, much like the land of Skyrim itself was.

     "Step towards the block when your name is called from the roster! One at a time! If you try anything, you will suffer under might of your Empire!" An Imperial Legate shouted. Her voice was firm, and her tone commanding.

     She closed a hand around the hilt of her sword, knuckles becoming white with the pressure. As a commander she was uneasy. The people herded before her were traitors. While a general stood in ear of her command, she couldn't falter. "Start calling the names," She said with a nod to her second.

     "Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm." The Centurion said in a callous tone of voice. Things grew silent. Ulfric approached the block, a gag covering his mouth, as all of Skyrim knew he used the Voice when he bested the High King.

     "Ralof of Riverwood," The Centurion continued. A blonde haired Nord stepped forwards, and followed behind his true High King. "Gunjar of Ivarstead," Now, a red-brown haired Nord approached the block. "Lokir of Rorikstead ..." 

     Unlike the prisoners before him, Lokir donned no blue garbs. He wore the simple torn rags of a beggar. And further still breaking the tradition undertaken by the others called, he left his file and called out to any who would listen, "No! Please! I'm just a thief, you ca-can't --... they can't do this!" The man pleaded desperately, his beady eyes glaring all around.

"Legionaries!" The Imperial Legate shouted, pulling her sword free of its sheath.

     On her word a pair of soldiers broke away from the line set before the townsfolk, tackling Lokir to the ground. They proceeded to kick and beat him senseless.

     "Wait! Please!" He cried out over the metallic thuds of armored boots kicking into him.

     The poor man started to sob helplessly. Everyone around the courtyard stared unknowing of what would happen. If they moved to help him, they'd likely be cut down. After his thorough beating, the two legionaries hoisted Lokir up to his knees and held him still.

     The Legate's second in command sauntered over, his logbook in hand. In a voice completely lacking in empathy he read, "Lokir of Rorikstead. You are hereby sentenced to death for treason against your Empire."

     Lokir immediately panicked, twisting in the grasp of the soldiers holding him. "No! Don't kill me! Please! I'm... I'm no rebel, no -- ... I love the Emperor! I swear!" 

     Unfortunately for him, his cries fell on deaf ears. With a nod from the Centurion, one of the legionaries stepped forwards, his blade drawn. Raising it to his opposite shoulder, he swung and slashed across Lokir's throat. An unnerving sound filled the air when the dull steel cut deep, and blood began to seep out of the fresh wound. The crimson tide flowed freely down his neck and collar, staining his shirt as it fought back against the tanned fabric. He was discarded into the mud with a distasteful kick from the men who held him.

     As he squirmed helplessly on the ground, a few villagers screamed in horror. How could the people supposedly protecting them exemplify someone so brutally? "Murder!" One man cried, rushing the wall of shields in front of him.

     The soldiers still deployed drew their swords, and with one swing the rushing Nord townsman was cut down. His limp body carried its momentum into tje tower shield of the man who killed him, a reinforced steel emblazoned with a red fabric and the dragon sigil of the Third Empire. 

     "Ulfric Stormcloak!" General Tullius called out suddenly. His voice was distinct, overpowering the cheering. Immediately the town went silent. Ulfric, still gagged, was paraded forwards and kicked to his knees. 

     "Some here in Helgen call you a hero." Tullius continued, lowering himself to the height at which his enemy now knelt. The Imperial was cold. Ulfric was the general that opposed him after all. "But a hero doesn't use a power like the Voice to murder his king and usurp his throne." 

     Ulfric could only grunt angrily at the mockery he was receiving. Who was an Imperial to harp on him like a father did his son? 

     "You started this war! Plunged Skyrim into chaos! And now the Empire is going to put you down, and restore the peace!" Locals cheered as the General rose to his feet. But just then, a blood curdling sound thundered in the distant mountains.

     "What was that?" A wary soldier asked, re-gripping his sword.

     General Tullius turned to him, running a hand through his short-cut gray hair. "Nothing. Carry on." And with that, turned to rejoin the Thalmor Elves who were overlooking the current proceedings.

     "Yes, General!" His Legate yelled proudly, offering a firm salute. "Give these traitors their last rites," she finished, her hard glare settling on the Priestess of Arkay that stood behind her.

     The woman of cloth had her head bowed, but when ordered, she stepped forwards and raised her pale white hands up to the sky. When she spoke, it was a soft and angelic voice. It was unlikely there was a voice more gentle to send you into the jaws of death.

     "As we commend your souls to Aetherius, blessings of the Eight Divines upon you, for you are the salt and --" Abruptly she was cut off.

     A Stormcloak prisoner now broke his line and file too, marching right up to the priestess. "For the love of Talos, shut up, and let's get this over with!" He demanded.

     People gasped at his outburst. With how Lokir had been exemplified, this man must have been insane to make the same mistake.

     "I... as you wish..." The priestess said, bowing her head in silence once more. She looked embarrassed, as though this was one of the first times she had delivered the rites before so many onlookers. 

     Having not yet been tackled down to the block, the prisoner turned next to the crowd of people. He continued with his demands, his anger more apparent, "Come on! I haven't got all morning!"

     The Legate personally subdued him and kicked him down to the block. As his head lined up with the basket below, she gave a firm nod to the executioner.  She earned herself a laugh from the man. He was perhaps the only one staring death in the face.

     "My ancestors are smiling at me, Imperials. Can you say the same?" As a faithful Nord, it was unlikely the Empire would be able to invoke within him any fear during his final moments. Sovengarde awaited him, and all true Nords.

    Abiding by the Legate, the executioner now stepped forwards. The man was built like an ox, and he handled an extremely large axe well within his grip. He'd draw in a breath, bringing the shaft up to his shoulder and then over his head. It would only linger for a moment before the executioner exhaled, swinging the weight downwards.

     Shrieks and cheers picked up again as the jagged-crescent blade cut its way deep into the prisoner's neck. Unfortunately for him, it did not go all the way through in a single swing. The Legate glared at the executioner's... "mishap", but he simply ignored her, he found amusement in the droplets of blood that now spotted his armor. With a small adjustment in how he was holding his weapon, he pulled it free and brought it down once more.

     In a second clean chop, the man's head was severed and fell into the basket below. A look of horror shown on the face of it, as though the man it belonged to experienced true agony before death.

     "Next prisoner!" The Legate ordered, a second Stormcloak being herded forwards.

     He had nothing to say, unlike the man who came before him. Perhaps he would have, had he not seen the terrible way in which he was sent off.

     Varik chewed on his lip again as the executions continued. Many heads would roll before Ulfric Stormcloak, instilling within him the message that rebellion was met with a firm hand. He felt this was senseless, that the Empire was flaunting too much.

     "What in Oblivion is that?!" General Tullius suddenly called out, his eyes glaring up at the sky.

     His Legate stepped forwards, oblivious to what would soon befall her. "Sentries! What do you see?!" 

     "It's in the clouds!" A legionary reported from atop the first watchtower.

     "...Dragon!" Someone else cried out. 

     With this cry chaos ensued. In a panic, the townsfolk had scattered and fled for their homes, or perhaps the main gates. Some grabbed their children, some their weapons, and others nothing. They simply ran for their lives. 

     "Stun.. Bah.. Toor!" The massively winged beast shouted as it descended upon the village. In the skies above the clouds swirled and turned a dark gray. A hellfire fell, meteors conjured by mere words raining down on Helgen. 

     Soldiers either followed close behind General Tullius and his guard as they moved to retreat from the fort, or cowered in fear at what now began hunting them like prey. As for the prisoners, they either scattered in search of freedom, or followed behind the fleeing Ulfric Stormcloak who planned to escape in the madness. 

     As for Varik, he raced back inside the house and down the steps. There was absolutely zero time to waste. His dead sprint was the fastest he'd ever run in his entire life. Never had a look of desperation shown so obviously on his face. 

"Ogren!" he called out. "Og-oof!" His voice was cut short as he stumbled on the ground.

     Varik had run straight into a Stormcloak in the chaos, their collision knocking the wind out of him. "Imperial dog!" The man screamed at him, clambering back onto his feet and tackling Varik to the ground.

     Unable to recover fast enough, Varik fell victim to his grasp, starting to choke as the man forced his hands around his throat. "Mmrh!" Varik grunted, his face turning red in the struggle to breathe.

     This Stormcloak could have just ran, and followed his Nord brothers with Ulfric. But no, he had to attack here and now, amidst all this chaos. It infuriated Varik; his blood boiling within him. With his vision starting to strain, he struggled to reach for his dagger. As a blur settled, he found its hilt and pulled it from its sheathe. 

     "Raaah!" Varik screamed, forcing the knife into the man's chest. 

     The Stormcloak howled in pain, choking immediately on the blood that started to pour out of his mouth. Varik tore the dagger out and stabbed it into him again, now pushing him to the ground instead. His decision to attack him left Varik seething in anger. He took this life with hatred.

     Panting, he finally pulled the blade free of the dead man and continued his sprint for Ogren's home. When he was only mere feet away, a deep voice bellowed, "Dreh ni unt, Dovahkiin." 

     Varik's body grinded to a halt, and he felt chilled to his core. He could feel the dragon flying over him. It wasn't looking at the havoc it wrought no, it was staring directly at him.

     "Mun los nid dovah." The voice rumbled once more, the faintness of amusement in its tone. Had it been able to smile, it might have, shouting again, "Yol... Toor... Shul!" 

     A streak of fire spewed from its mouth and splashed against Ogren's home. The thatch immediately caught light, and within seconds a violent fire engulfed the house. Varik watched in horror, collapsing to his knees. Black spots shown in his vision as he suddenly felt sick. His trembling hands struggled to hold onto his bloodied knife as it slipped from his grip.

     Knowing full well it had shattered his will, the dragon ceased its strafing and hovered above him. Its scales were as black as night, and its wingspread was vast like a sail. Every time they drew open and closed it sent debris flying. The dragon knew sitting overhead would only taunt Varik further.

     "Come on you fucking bastard!" He screamed, his voice raspy as it reached a pitch it never had before. "Come on! Come on and face me, you --" The dragon cut him off with a single word, "Fus." 

     Another blast, different from the first, left the beast and catapulted Varik into Ogren's burning home. When he crashed into the flames he was immediately consumed. The dragon lingered in place, thinking upon him. Was it perplexed, or simply humored? Only it knew, and with a vicious roar it took flight again, finishing that which it had started.

     As the fires rose high, and the streets ran red with blood, the deed was done. In this shadow unbound, the throne of man is usurped, and with death still fresh in the air, so begins the End Times.


	4. Ashen Scars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Survival  
> (noun) ~ the state or fact of continuing to live or exist, typically in spite of an accident, ordeal, or difficult circumstances

In the long hours after the dragon attack, Helgen had become a desolate no man's land. A steady rainfall came in its wake to beat down the fires that once raged. There were no signs of life, and none had ventured within the village limits to search for survivors. 

Varik was lain in the ruins of Ogren's home, weakly staring up at plumes of smoke overhead. They no longer issued him any feelings of relief that a long journey had come to its awaited end. Instead they waved like banners in support of the dragon that had just sacked the village.

With a huff he tried to get up, but nothing happened. His nerves were shot and his muscles unresponsive. He could only manage to squirm under the rubble that held him down. Even that became a challenge as his body was shivering terribly. It was was freezing, and the current downpour only made it that much worse. 

Had it been a degree colder this rain would've been that gentle snowfall it was in the morning. But, whether by fault of the dragon's use of the Voice, or some natural means, this ice cold rain would continue to fall. Varik was content to bask in it however, if only for a few moments. He wanted desperately to wash the ashen remains of Ogren from his body. A pity the memory of his death wouldn't be erased by the mere effort of rain.

Finally managing to sit upright and have a look around, Varik's eyes beheld a grimness. Darkness was swallowing everything as the sun vanished over the distant northern mountains. In this coming night, it didn't look as though a moon would ever rise in its place.

"Hunh..." Varik moaned in pain as he kicked a charred log of wood off of his legs.

How had he managed to survive? That dragon was so sure in the words that it spoke when it sent him cascading into Ogren's blazing home to be reduced to nothing more than an ashen muck. Yet Varik lived. Why? Why was he left alone to cope?

The man shivered still as he sat among saturated ruins. Under normal circumstances he might have sought out shelter, or called for help like he had in the mountains. In those instances he had no intention of dying. But now? In this haze of a world? How did Varik know this was not simply his purgatory?

He'd grunt as he discarded a piece of his tattered armor to the side. It nearly crumbled as easily as the charred remains of thatch and wood surrounding him. When he rose to his feet he stood upon a mixture of mud and perhaps other unknowns. Varik cringed with the sloshy feeling beneath his feet. This experience was degrading; a proud Nordic warrior reduced to a feeble and laughable state. Was this some curse to befall all members of his clan? First Ogren, and now him. Who was next?

"D-do... the gods... h-have any m-m-mercy?" Varik asked himself again, his voice trembling violently.

At the chatter of his teeth he was reminded of the mountains he once journeyed through. What had it been, a single day? It felt like eons ago that he was sat beside a fire eating stew with Sindri. Things were so simple only a clock turn ago.

Varik forced himself out of the sunken foundation of Ogren's home and out onto the road. While he walked, that sloshy mud sucked at the bottoms of his burned boots like a babe did its mothers tit.

"Unh... Gods..." Varik groaned again as he wandered through the aftermath. 

Every building had collapsed in on itself, and the only tower left standing was that that stood over the fortress. Varik sought it out, the looming structure, the only beacon of hope in this pit of despair. He halted when he saw another survivor in the village center.

"It's in the clouds, I s-s... saw it. I see it in the clouds. Sentry, what do you see? I see it in the c-clouds... I see it..." Repeated a wounded Imperial soldier.

He said it again again, his words just as endless as the circle he presently marched in. His damaged armor plates scraped against one another, and the man's right arm was cut clean off from the elbow down.

Struggling to speak up Varik croaked, "..h-hello...!"

The soldier didn't hear him and continued on in his drivel. Maybe only death would release him from his endless march. A fire struggled to burn in the rain adjacent to him, its fading light shining on his face. It did nothing to help illuminate his features; Varik only squinting at an obscurity beneath a stained helmet.

He gave up on him and wandered further through the courtyard. He'd pass under a small stone walkway that connected the inner walls of Helgen Keep, and enter the grounds of the fort. Its walls were foreboding in this darkness. Had these walls stood in remembrance of their dragon conqueror?

In this shroud of bleakness, there was yet another small allotment of hope offered by the fort. Its windows gleamed a faint orange light, fire's burning within. Varik tilted his head at them wondering if perhaps someone was inside. 

He stepped closer to it but flinched in fear when he heard, "There! There's another one!" Shouted with a loud voice.

It called out over the rain, maybe coming from the top of the keep's tower. Varik felt a sudden panic as he hadn't known who was calling. Did bandits come into the keep under the cover of chaos and dismay? Was it survivors calling down to him?

His thoughts skewed and his vision blurred. Varik was freezing to death. His body finally surrendered to the elements and collapsed into the sack of meat and bones that all men were. Before the darkness could consume his vision he wondered, "Is this death? Had it seen him and deployed within him the agent of its will?"

***

"Hunh..." Varik groaned.

He had stirred from a botched sleep and awoke to an empty room with a man looking over him. Somehow he had ended up in a bed, covered in warm furs. Instinct made him sit up and attempt to flee.

"Shh... shh! Be quiet kinsman!" A man whispered at him.

It was a blonde haired Nord, his locks hanging heavy at his shoulders. A braid traced down the left side of his face, traditional in the bead at its end. He was wearing a tattered ringmail hauberk, and over it a leather jerkin. Strewn across its front side was a stained blue cloth; the colors of the Stormcloak rebels.

Varik shot them a glare but obeyed, seeing as they had likely saved his life. 

"There's another trying to sleep. And they need it." The Nord explained, casting his sad blue eyes over his shoulder. He gazed upon that red-haired male that had been called to the prisoners block after him.

"Who are you?" Varik asked, his gaze purposeful.

"Ralof of Riverwood, as the Imperials had put it. But to others, just Ralof." He sounded annoyed in his recollection of the Centurion who called his name. "What about you, kinsman?"

Varik sat up in his bed, giving his introduction that was growing more and more familiar with every new face. "Varik. Bear-Blood." Curious as to who's word was law, Varik continued, "Who is in charge here?"

Ralof huffed in amusement, "In charge, Varik? No one is in charge. There's nothing to take charge of. We who remain should all be killing each other given our allegiances." 

"What do you mean?" Varik asked, confused.

"Me, Gunjar. Hadvar and Aurelius. We're soldiers... just with different banners." Ralof explained.

"Why haven't you killed eachother?" Varik asked pointedly.

Ralof continued, "Believe me, we're not all keen on sleeping under the same roof. But, odds are we'll live if we all work together. The priestess said as much..."

"The woman of cloth?" Varik said, sounding as though he did not believe what he heard. "She's alive?"

"Aye. Her, and Matheld are the other survivors."

Nodding his head, Varik pushed himself off the bed and rose to his feet. He yawned as he stretched his aching muscles out. He truly did feel restored. "Where are we, in the keep I'm guessing?" Varik asked.

"Mhm." Ralof hummed. "The torture room. Your bed is from the barracks on the other side of the fort."

"Why are you here and not there?"

"The Imperials, Hadvar and Aurelius, have helped themselves to it. We only barely managed to negotiate a bed from them." Ralof replied, crossing his arms. He was visibly frustrated.

"You're not speaking? I thought you just said you were working together?" Varik asked.

"Aye. But the priestess is the one barely holding us together. She's the one who nursed you back to health and got us that extra bed." 

Varik bowed his head, understanding who specifically had saved him this time around. "Where is she?" he asked.

Ralof gestured to the stairs that led up from the torture room. "In the kitchen. She stays between us and the Imperials to avoid any... disagreements."

Yawning again Varik looked around for something to put on. He was only wearing a pair of ragged trousers, fastened loosely by a thin fraying rope.

"You can get a bite to eat if Matheld is still awake. I'm sure you could use it." Ralof offered. "And the Imperials have the armory. So if you're looking for your weapons or armor, you're out of luck."

"Right..." Varik said, having to make do with what little clothes he wore.

Helgen Keep was well lit at least, so walking through its corridors wasn't nearly as ominous as one might expect. It was warm too, closed off from the elements outside. Varik only struggled to scale the steps that led to the kitchen. He was determined to reach the top, and once he had he leaned against the stonework in the walls for a breath.

The priestess spotted him then, and quickly abandoned her book to aid him. "You're up!" she exclaimed in that angelic voice that suited her so well, "I'd have thought that Nord would have come and said something ..."

As the woman put herself beneath Varik's arm and helped him towards the fireplace, she couldn't help but notice how warm he was. When Aurelius had pulled him out of the rain he had been so frigid and cold to the touch.

"Thanks..." Varik said in his stern tone. He was sat down before the fire, Matheld giving him a weak wave with her fingers when he arrived. She was slumped within a wooden chair, idly strumming at a lute.

"I see he's walking and talking again, Norra. That's good." She said jokingly. 

Norra huffed as she dusted off her hands and ran them through her hair. "Yeah. Maybe you try carrying him next time. Would have been impossible if not for Aurelius." The priestess said, crossing her arms.

With no pressing need to deliver religious rites, Norra was speaking freely. She was comfortable, unlike in the morning. With her hood tugged down, her features were brought into the light. She was young, with a soft skin complexion. Her black hair, once ornately braided, sat tied back behind her head in a frazzled bun. Loose strands traced down the sides of her face, and complimented hopeful emerald eyes.

Matheld instead was dotted with blemishes and rough spots in her skin. As a regular in Helgen her lifestyle was much harsher than Norra's was. Days and nights of hard work had made her strong, and not so caring of her looks. Her dirty blonde hair was unclean and was only tied back as to not obstruct her sight.

"I suppose you want a bite to eat, stranger?" She assumed, seeing as she had fed the other survivors. 

"If it isn't any more trouble, I'd appreciate it." Varik said flatly.

"Ho, you're a joyous one! Try this on for size. Might make you less hostile." Matheld rose to her feet and handed her lute to Varik. 

He stared at it, confused. This was just his normal voice, what was she talking about? He reached out to take it, clueless in plucking its strings. "Thanks." Varik said, entertained in the least bit.

"Huh. Yeah, no problem." Matheld replied, heading to the shelves and counter to prepare a meal.

It was the grace of the Divines that this kitchen was well-stocked with food. Fresh game had been brought in around the same time Varik had arrived. Lucky enough for him, he'd be getting a second good meal.

Norra now took Matheld's seat, and looked upon Varik. She smiled at how he tried to learn his way around the instrument. Soon his plucks became strums, and harsh sounds turned to notes. "A bard?" She joked with a smirk.

"No." Varik answered seriously. "Mercenary."

The woman's grin faded as her gentle prod evaporated before her. The reality that Varik was likely another Nord brute dawned on her, but she accepted it. 

"Did they name you before they sent you out to clobber?" She asked humorously.

A huff left the Nord, as he stopped playing. "Yes. Varik Bear-Blood." He shook his head with an amused grin and returned to Matheld's instrument.

Norra hummed in acknowledgment, aware she had no need to introduce herself.

"You never did that before, did you?" Varik asked her.

"...sorry?" Norra said, unsure of what he referred to.

"Delivering the rites. You've never done that before -- at least not for men soon to be executed."

The priestess sunk in her seat as she was reminded of that which she so desperately tried to keep from her mind. A frown formed on her face and her eyes stared at the fire; lost.

"... sorry. Didn't mean to sound so harsh." Varik said, spotting the error in his bluntness. He stopped playing the lute, flushed with an immediate feeling of regret. Knowing he had done wrong he set it down and spoke directly to Norra. "I'm sorry for what you witnessed, and what I said. I am in your debt for saving my life." His tone did what it rarely had, and softened.

Norra sighed at that much looking away from the fire. "No thanks needed." She said, her voice sounding much the same as Varik's.

Feeling as though he now intruded, the strong Nord warrior rose to his feet to give Norra her time alone. She only stole a glance at his physique before her green eyes returned to the flames that danced in front of her. Norra could not act upon her aches.

"I hope you eat a lot to keep all that running." Matheld joked as she now presented Varik with a plate of venison chop, vegetables, and bread.

Varik nodded his head when he sat at the counter, his stomach aching at the smells of the prepared food. "Often and always." He joked with a smirk.

Cleaning her hands with a rag, Matheld met his smirk with one of her own. "Good. I put work into that, so don't just hork it all down in one go. Enjoy it, all right?" 

She wasn't asking for much, was she? Varik could abide by that simple request with the large forkful of food he stuffed into his mouth instead of his usual gargantuan portion. Technically, he was listening.

"Gross." Matheld mumbled, tucking her rag within the hem of her pants.

"This is good. Who taught you to cook?" Varik questioned, his mouth filled with food.

"I worked at the inn." The woman replied shortly. Matheld didn't sound as though she would elaborate. "The Inn" was likely her own horror story.

"Well... thank you." Varik finished, giving his full attention to his food. 

"Aurelius will want to talk to you. He took all of your things when we pulled you out of the rain. You should see about getting it all back." 

Nodding, Varik continued to eat. It irked him that all his belongings has been taken, but it was better than it all staying drenched. Hopefully some of it survived the fire.

***

The barracks was well-sorted. Beds lined the right most wall, once the living space of an Imperial garrison. Now it was hardly a sixth of what it used to be. Only one legionary was present. He was sat to the immediate left of Varik in the entryway, sorting through the equipment that once belonged to his fellow legionaries and other prisoners.

He was deeply absorbed in the process of sorting through the wide array of armaments. The Stormcloaks had fashioned themselves with traditional arms and heirlooms likely passed down from generations prior. Now, they were wiped clean of their history as their new maintainer cleansed their blades with a wet cloth. 

This Imperial was a native to Skyrim given his Nordic appearance. Unlike most other Nords, as a member of the legion he kept his face shaved, and his hair shorter. The brown locks were chopped just after his ears, not permitted to grow any further. Varik reasoned this wasn't a man by the likes of "Aurelius".

"Hadvar?" He called out to the Nord.

He looked up to Varik, shocked at first. "Oh." He mumbled. "It's you. Finally awake, I see."

Varik nodded his head, arms lacing over his chest. "Aye. Thanks to your friend I hear. Aurelius pulled me inside with the priestess. Where is he? I was told to speak to him to get my things back.

Hadvar shook his head, and turned back to the weapon on his lap. "He's keeping watch for now. You can find him later. If you want, your things are in that chest over there. I won't try to stop you from taking it all." He said in that mumble of his.

Varik looked to the chest that was beside the beds on the far wall. Its latch was left unlocked, so nothing stopped him from throwing the chest open. Inside was: his steel dagger and sword, his fur pack, his horned helm, and scattered plates.

"This is all that survived?" He asked, turning over his shoulder.

"No. There was a journal too. I set it out to dry --"

"What?" Varik cut him off. "Where. Where is it?"

Hadvar balanced the axe on his lap, pointing to his left. "On the Captain's desk. The pages survived, they were just wet."

Varik hurried to Aurelius desk, buried under layer after layer of paperwork, hoping to see Ogren's last surviving possession in good health. He breathed a sigh of relief when its leather cover was only wrinkled as a result of being drenched. 

"All the pages survived you said?"

"..yes. I was careful not to move them too much as they'd tear easily." Hadvar replied.

"Thank you. Seriously. Thank you." Varik insisted gratefully.

"Ah.. don't mention it." Hadvar said solemnly. He wasn't aware of the journal's significance.

"Hadvar!" A sudden firm voice called.

The Nord rose to his feet as Aurelius ran into the room. He was wearing the remnants of full Imperial plate, donning an open helmet and a wool cloak. A bandage covered his right eye, stained with blood.

"Oh -- you're awake." he said, his eye settled on Varik. "Fine. Hadvar. Get into your armor and go get the prisoners. You. Come with me to the courtyard."

Varik shot this Imperial a surprised look, glancing at Hadvar for direction. He was already halfway into his armor and readying to leave. 

"You don't have cotton in your ears do you, son? Move it!" Aurelius bellowed.

Varik shuffled back to his chest quickly, storing Ogren's journal inside. Instead of picking from the remnants of his own equipment, he borrowed from the abundance of gear left behind by the Empire.

When he finished fastening it all on, Varik looked much the rogue. The new rugged look of the Imperial armor combined with his new clothing was a fitting appearance for a survivor of Helgen. Alas, it was much less uniform than the soldiers who accompanied him.

"Is something happening?" Varik asked, fitting his sword to his side. The hilt was that fine steel forged within Windhelm. It had been embroidered with Nordic metal work at its pommel and cross-guard, Varik being no stranger to tradition.

"Aye, the bastards are here." Aurelius barked, marching passed Varik towards the door to the outside.

Varik was quick to follow after the man. "Who?" He asked, completely clueless.

Aurelius put his hand on the door and stopped, turning to look at Varik. His one uncovered eye was hazel in color, giving the Nord it stared at an astringent look. "Bandits."


End file.
